24 Hours

24 hours a day for the rest of our time together
we'll walk with glutton in our shoes,
walking with weight on our backs
covering distances only known in novels.

They'll get us you know,
those men selling cigarettes out of
office blocks, down that block there-
it's 62nd street and they never clock off.

What windows see aren't what we see.
Windows hear and feel and
we see and never heal;
we hold wounds like flowers bought 
in hospital foyers, late to see a relative.

Buy ones and get some free:
it's a ploy so we spend that little bit more
than we need to.